


Lilacs in a Dead Land

by Corycides



Series: 100 Fics in 100 Days [20]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Uncle/Niece Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:52:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing goes according to plan. After defanging the Republic, disbanding the militia and destroying Randall Flynn's device, everything should be coming up roses for the Mathesons. Instead they find themselves stranded in Death Valley with Sebastian Monroe and he might be right that no-one is looking for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The sun beat down like a hammer, the flat white plains the anvil and Monroe the unfortunate between. He walked along with his hands cuffed tightly behind his back, itching with sweat under his clothes and with sunburn everywhere else. 

Three days was a long time to swelter in Death Valley.

'Someone will come soon,' Charlie said, voice lilting with optimism.

Monroe stopped and turned around, coughing the dry out of his mouth. 'For god's sake, Miles. Just tell her. Or kill me. One or the other.'

Miles glared at him, the best he could manage. He had the dry, sticky-lipped look of someone who'd been skimping on his water rations. 

'Don't tempt me, Monroe,' he said.

'What's he mean?' Charlie asked, pushing her hair back from her face. Her eyes look insanely blue against burned skin, cheekbones and chin raw with blisters. 'Miles?'

He didn't answer, so Monroe did.

'No-one is coming for us,' he said. 'Power on or off, no-one wants us back.'

Her parched lips pinched into a thin, resentful line. 'They don't want you back.'

'Oh, but they're dying to rescue you Mathesons,' he said, rolling his voice in as much smooth he could eke from his throat. 'The ex-General of two armed insurrections and the pretty, moral little heroine of the rebellion – who's also the kid of the woman that turned it off? You aren't stupid, Charlie, put yourself in their position – a martyr would be much more palatable wouldn't they?'

It took her a second to go from denial to doubt. He didn't judge her for it. None of them were exactly at their best right now.

'Rachel,' she said.

His mouth quirked with old, familiar appreciation of the beautiful, cunning Rachel – the copper taste of blood from cracked lips suiting the thought of her. 'Is a pragmatist,' he said. 'She has Danny. She won't risk a son in the hand for a daughter who could already be dead.'

Miles gripped Charlie's shoulder with a dusty, bloody hand. 'Don't listen to him.'

Charlie glanced back over her shoulder at him. 'Because he's lying?'

Cracked lips open, but it took too long for Miles to come up with his lie. Charlie took a ragged breath and twisted her face into a bitter smile. 

'That what's I thought,' she said. 

She scrubbed her hand over her face and shoved past Monroe, stalking along the once-upon-a-time maybe-road they'd been following. Left behind, Miles stared after with a tired, grieving expression on his face. He shook it off and turned to glower at Monroe.

'Why?' he asked. 'Who was she hurting?'

'My teeth,' Monroe said. 'I can only take so much saccharine.'

Miles clenched his fists and they stared at each other, waiting. Instead of a punch, though, Miles just shoved him on ahead of him. They marched till noon and then took refuge in the single tent they'd scavenged from Randall's stores on the way out. Monroe was uncuffed and drank half his ration of water, the dribble of flat, hot liquid empty of any refreshment, and sprawled on his stomach thinking of ice and cold hands. 

With Miles snoring next to him, on his back and arms crossed like he was grumpy, it was almost familiar.

A bony elbow poked his arm on Charlie's side. He glanced at her. Her lips were wet and soft-looking, her lashes frosted with sun and dried tears.

'Are we going to die?' she asked quietly.

'Everyone dies in the end,' he said, thinking of wet dirt and graves.

Her mouth did something that might have been a grimace or a smile if it had more energy. 'You like telling me the truth, Monroe. So tell me.'

'Maybe,' he admitted. 'I hope not.'

She raised an eyebrow at him. 'You lost.'

'Doesn't mean I want to die,' he said. Not that he hadn't thought about doing a 'glorious last stand', but it was more appealing in the heat of the moment. A lot less once the adrenaline ebbed and death wasn't hung with medals and battle standards, just a dusty grave for wasted bones. 'Doesn't mean I want you to die.'

'Me?'

'Mathesons,' he corrected her. 'You were family once.'

'You don't treat family very well.'

He kissed her. It was an impulse, born of the fact her lips were only centimetres away and the fact it might shut her up. Her lips were rougher than they looked and her breath was sour. She didn't push him away, but she didn't kiss him back either.

'Some things are more important than family,' he reminded her, dropping his head back onto his forearm. 'I liked Rachel, but she killed the world.'

She inhaled through her nose and wriggled over onto her side, her back to him. Her voice whispered to the canvas wall.

'I'm not dying here.' 

He closed his dry eyes and hoped she was right. It didn't feel like it, but he must have slept. At least long enough for Miles to have to shake him awake. Bass spat out a mouthful of dry, tatty Charlie hair and sat up, feeling the ache of tight skin and tired bones. 'What,' he mouthed.

Miles jerked his thumb over his shoulder and crawled out of the tent. The sun was lower in the sky, but it was still brutal. Bass shaded his eyes and squinted towards the blurred smudge of the horizon, trying to estimate whether it looked less harsh than their current location.

'How much water do we have?'

'More if I kill you,' Miles said quietly. 

Tension prickled down Bass' neck, the skin between his shoulders crawling, and he turned around. Miles stood behind him, feet braced shoulder width apart and gaunt face grim. He watched Bass with sunken, fevered eyes.

'You going to?'

Miles twisted his fingers around the hilt of his sword. 'I should.'

'Not what I asked, brother.'

He'd meant the word to be sarcastic, but it just came out tired. No Miles, no Republic – he didn't want to die, but damn it if he knew what he was walking towards. 

'I wasn't asleep,' Miles said.

It took a second for Bass to follow. When he did he laughed, long enough that it started sounding a bit hysterical to himself. He choked it down and scrubbed his hand over his face.

'Look around you,' he said. 'Does this really seem like the place to worry about your niece's virtue? And hell, Miles, I'm flattered but I'm not exactly up for it right now.'

Miles gave the ghost of a snort. 'Seen you look worse and try. That hospital in Baghdad? You had a catheter in and were trying it on with that nurse.'

They shared a silent moment of remembered amusement. It had been a long time, Bass realised, even before the last time Miles tried to kill him. He rubbed his chafed wrists absently, thumbs finding the raw spots under his thumbs, while Miles worked his hand loose from the sword. The scabs over his knuckles cracked and bled.

'Charlie has a better chance of making it out alive with both of us,' Miles said. 'That's the only reason I'm letting you live, after everything. So keep that in mind when you talk to her, or drink too much of her water.'

'Her water?'

Miles gave that Matheson-smile, the blinding one they wore before throwing themselves on the sword. 'She's the only one of us who deserves to get out of this alive.'

Luckily, Bass had never cared what he deserved. Just what he wanted. 

Miles woke up Charlie, tying the rags of a torn up t-shirt over her knotted hair, while Bass pitched what there was of their camp. The bag of water-bottles Miles had been carrying felt too light when Bass picked it up. He didn't look. Either they'd make it or they were just walking to give them something to do between now and dying – knowing wouldn't make him feel any better.

This time Miles didn't bother to cuff Bass' hands.

Night felt, the cold sand sucking heat through the soles of their boots. They kept walking, guessing at whether they were still on the rudimentary road. At least the cold soothed Bass' raw skin.

They saw the horsemen too late to avoid them – a bit embarrassing, but Bass supposed there was no-one to tell that tale. 

'Get back, Charlie,' Miles said, shoving her out of the way. 

He pulled his sword and set his feet. Bass reached automatically for his only to find an empty belt. Damn. Still, he took in the ragged clothes and dirty, pocked faces of the men bearing down on him, he was better trained than these bandits.

Hopefully.

Laughing and whooping the five riders plunged towards them, sand kicked up like water around the horse's hooves. Miles didn't bother with anything fancy, just ducked the swing of a mace and swung his sword in a short, hard arc that shattered one bony pastern. The horse screamed like a child and went down, thrashing in the dirt. 

It's rider wasn't well-trained enough to get off again in time, although Bass wasn't sure if he heard the distinctive crunch of a shattered leg or just remembered it. He stepped under the clumsy swipe of the bandit's sword, grabbed the thick wrist and twisted, hauling the man out of the cheaply made saddle.

The horse kept going, loose reins flapping as it tossed its head, and Bass followed the bandit down onto the sand. He dug his knee into the small of the man's back and twisted his arm, disarticulating it with a tidy pop. The man's scream was muffled in the sand. Numb fingers dropped the sword. 

Just to be sure, Bass grabbed his head, digging his fingers into the greasy hair, and snapped his neck He didn't want to have to argue with Miles and Charlie about prisoners. They couldn't afford the water.

Leaning over, Bass grabbed the discarded sword – cheaply made and badly kept, but it would do – and scrambled to his feet. His head swam, making the world ripple, as his adrenaline started to flag. He gritted his teeth and kept moving.

Two down, two to go.

Without needing to think about it, he and Miles ended up back to back on the sand as the remaining riders circled them. Between their ill-fitting hats and high collars their scabby, dirty faces were dark with anger. Not enough to make them careless unfortunately.

'The ginger guy,' Bass said, tilting his head towards Miles so his voice would carry. 'He'll move first.'  
There was a pause as Miles weighed up the two. The ginger man was the youngest of the group and anxious, his twisting hands making the raw-mouthed horse fret and gnaw at the bit. His companion, an older Japanese man who'd lost an eye, had a more controlled seat. He'd hang back, in Bass' opinion, until he knew whether to participate in the victory or flee the rout.

Miles saw it too. 'No bet,' he said. 'Don't hurt the horse.'

Ginger screamed like an idiot and thumped his heels into his horse's ribs, spurs raking open old scars. It charged at them, bloody froth on its muzzle, and they both stepped and pivoted at the same time. They moved like mirror images of each other, one real and the other a reflection. Bass thought the edge of his blade bit home first, slicing through the wiry meat of Ginger's thigh, but Miles was only a breath slower. 

Blood soaked through the man's trousers in seconds and he wobbled, legs gone numb from the abrupt injury. He slid out of the saddle and flopped to the ground, catching a hoof to the temple as he went down. It left a crescent shaped dent in his skull, slowly feeling with blood, but he was still flinching and twisting.

Miles stepped and stabbed down, tendons standing out in his wrist as he twisted the blade. Blood bubbled on the man's lip, popping on his ginger stumble. The Japanese man wrenched his horse back on its heels and pulled it around in a tight turn. As he retreated, Bass raised an eyebrow at Miles. 

'Didn't think you had it in you any more,' he said.

Miles gave him a dark look. 'I've not changed, Bass,' he said. 'That's why neither of us should get out of here. This comes too easy to us-'

The distinct clack and hiss of a crossbow bolt being released interrupted them. It hit the bandit in the back, jerking him forwards. He fell off the horse and dragged, bouncing along the ground until it finally stopped.

Both men turned to look at Charlie. She lowered the crossbow she'd grabbed from the injured horse and stared back at them.

'I'm not helpless,' she said roughly. 'And we're all getting out of here. Idiots.'

It took a while to catch the skittish horses. It turned out that Charlie had picked up Miles antipathy towards horses and it was returned in kind. She actually managed to get bitten by the nervy, one-eared grey. 

They finally got them caught and gentled, along the grey kept a white-rimmed eye on Charlie. She glared back at it and squirmed uncomfortably in the saddle of her more stoic brown.

'What about him?' she asked, looking at the sweating man under his dead horse.

'I'll take care of it,' Bass said. 'Go on.'

She twisted the reins around her hand until her fingers went puffy white. 'I should see.'

Bass' eyes flicked to Miles curiously. When he nodded, Bass shrugged and walked over to the man. It was a kindness, of sorts, that sort of injury wouldn't heal out here. Even in Philadelphia, with the best medical facilities they could cobble together, he'd probably lose the leg. His face was already dry and shiny with fever.

He slit his throat.

It took another day to leave the arid desert. The horses had to drink as well, and by the time they reached the border they were down to one half-ration each. Miles gave his to Charlie without letting on. Bass drank his, he'd be more use to Charlie up and walking than dead.

Not that he cared that much about Charlie. It was just an irritated reaction to Miles hopes of martyrdom.

Charlie stopped the horse and stared with a mixture of relief and dismay at the land laid out in front of her. A row of skulls mounted on stakes marked out the boundary. Most of them weren't human, but some of them were. 'The Wastelands,' she said. 'How will we ever get home.'

'We'll work something out,' Miles said, leaning over to squeeze her shoulder supportively. 'Even if we have to walk.'

Maybe. Bass leant down and stroked the grey's neck, feeling her skin twitch under his callused palm. Or maybe this was home. No leadership, no infrastructure – nothing between him and a fresh start. All he had to do was convince his Mathesons' to play along.


	2. Chapter 2

The marrow of Charlie's bones felt scorched. She floated on her back in the cloudy blue water of the narrow pool, water sucking the heat from her skin. Water-logged clothes tugged at her limbs, pulling her down, but the weed-crusted bottom was only a few inches away. She'd have to make a real effort to drown.

'You're just getting more sunburnt,' Monroe said. 'And you're starting to look like a water-logged corpse.'

Charlie squeezed her eyes tight shut, skin cracking at the corners, and ignored him. She didn't want to get out, she just wanted to float. If she got out she'd have to think, to engage with the situation and plot and plan. She did that. It was what she did. Only she thought the sun had burnt it out of her.

Besides, it wasn't as if she'd been here that long. They'd only stumbled into Beattie, finding buildings half-buried in sand, no signs of life and the El Portal motel with it's cool, wet pool. She couldn't have been in here more than 30 mins.

There was a splash and she was scooped up out of the water, hands under her knees and around her back. Apparently she'd out-wallowed his tolerance. He dumped her out on the cracked, rough blue tiles and boosted himself up out of the water. Water soaked his trousers to the knees, revealing the original black colour under the grey dust, as he sat down next to her.

'I'd have gotten out in my own time,' Charlie said, sitting in a spreading pool of grimy water. She raked her fingers through her matted hair, dragging it back in a rough knot and twisting it dry-ish. The skin on her arms was a dull, sore red, under white, sloughing strips of dead flesh. She picked chunks of it off, gelid and stinging. 'I just-'

'Didn't want to?'

She shrugged and leant forwards, hanging her arms over her knees. 'More or less.' It hadn't been the best long-term plan, she supposed, and now it was time to pull herself together. She took a deep breath and grabbed Monroe's shoulder, using it to lever herself to her feet. 'Where's Miles?'

He held up his hand, scraped knuckles and raw nails, and waited. Eyes that pale shouldn't look that heated. Charlie grabbed his hand and heaved, although she didn't think he needed that much help. It wasn't the first time. He'd dragged her to her feet in the desert, more than once. For some reason doing it here, dripping with water and in no immediate danger of death, felt...different. She hung on once he was up, meeting his gaze steadily.

'It doesn't mean anything, Monroe,' she said. 'We're not friends.'

He leant in close enough she thought he was going to kiss her again. 'Good. My last friend tried to kill me.'

So Charlie kissed him, lips stinging as they scraped over his. In the moment it made sense to her sun-dazzled wits. A proper kiss, not his chaste tease. She curled her hand around the back of his neck, water numb fingers tightening in his hair. Monroe wobbled, caught off guard, and shifted his feet to steady himself. He didn't touch her, but he didn't back away either. They stood there in front of the low-slung, cracked open motel, sun stretching their locked together shadows over the sere ground.

Finished, she rested her forehead against his and leaned into his solid frame. It wasn't like she wanted to fuck him, she was too tired to walk and god knew neither of them looked pretty. She just needed... 'We're not dead.'

'No,' he said, reaching up and tucking a wet elf-lock behind her ear. 'Not yet. I take it this doesn't change anything either?'

Charlie closed her eyes and sighed, an abrupt puff of breath. She still didn't feel close to competent or confident, but when had she ever. Half their war had been fought with the sick-to-the-stomach conviction that someone was going to realise she was faking it. So she could do this.

'I'm glad we're alive,' she said, stepping back and lifting her chin. 'And I guess, maybe, I won't chase too hard if you stay here instead of going back to the Republic to face trial. But I wouldn't know how not to hate you, Monroe.'

He smiled. Charlie stared at him for a second, then shook her head. Maybe the sun had cooked his brain too. It wasn't like she could judge. 

'Come on,' she said. 'Since I can't soak until I melt, I guess we have to work out what to do next.'

She headed inside, her clothes already drying stiff against her skin, with Monroe at her elbow. They found Miles in one of the rooms, sitting on the floor surrounded by electronics. Charlie remembered enough to identify them, but was daunted to realise she didn't know what they were exactly. 

'What are you doing?' she asked.

Miles snarled and wrenched a plug out of the wall, chucking whatever it was he was holding at the wall. It smashed, bits of white plastic scattering the floor. He scrambled to his feet and kicked at the other items, scattering them over the floor. His cracked lips were a thin, bloody line.

'None of them work,' he said.

'What do you mean?' Charlie asked, crouching to pick up a flat tile. She turned it in her hands curiously, pressing her finger against the yielding glass screen. 'What should they do?'

'Turn on,' Miles spat at her. He sat down hard on the bed, the mattress dipping alarmingly under him, and dropped his head into his hands, fingers digging into his short, dark hair. His wrists were lumped with dark, infected looking bites. 'We destroyed Randall's device, the power should be back on. So how come not one of these bastarding things will turn on?'

'No power plants,' Monroe said, tilting his head. 'Even if they'd been left running, they would have worn out by now, with no maintenance.'

'And the batteries?' Miles asked, looking up.

Monroe reached over Charlie's shoulder and took the tile off her, pressing his thumb to it and waiting. He shook it and tried again, frowning when nothing happened. 'Run down?' he suggested, handing the thing back to Charlie. 'The pendants powered things up, but if we're back to normal...'

'Not a flicker,' Miles asked, sounding weary. 'Not a half-hearted buzz or a fading LED number. Everything's dead.'

'Maybe it takes time,' Charlie suggested. 'Maybe things need to power up again, like the pendants.'

'Or maybe Flynn was wrong about being able to bring the power back,' Miles said. He stood up, mouth twisting bitterly. 'Maybe this just how it is now. I'm going to get a drink.'

Miles kicked a laptop out of his way (Aaron had one of those to show at school, the world's most complicated and useless paperweight) and stalked out. He slammed the door behind him, flakes of paint and rotted wood showering to the carpet.

'I'll talk to him,' Monroe said, squeezing Charlie's shoulder. 'Stay here. Drink plenty of water.'

He walked away like he expected her to actually do what he said. She'd never done that when he was President of the Republic, never mind now. Tossing the useless tile onto the bed she followed him, catching up to them by the rusted truck lying crookedly on battered rims.

'I told you to stay behind,' Monroe said, frowning at her.

Miles snorted under his breath, a huff of reluctant humour. 'You get used to it,' he said.


	3. Chapter 3

Sweat stung the back of Miles neck as he kicked drifts of sand out of the way so he could wrench the sun-warped door of a weathered police cruiser open enough to squeeze through. He wanted a drink, but they needed other things more. Bad as his hands had been shaking a couple of days ago, maybe he could do with cutting down. A quick hunt turned up cuffs and a sandwich box that had rotted down to dust and bark. 

The car jolted and there was a grinding pop, the trunk flipping open. Miles flicked the cuffs together and hitched his hips off, stuffing them into the back pocket of his jeans. It was never the safe bet that Bass would stay well-behaved. He walked around the back of the car and found Bass cracking a shotgun open over his arm.

'Hand it over,' Miles said.

Bass snapped the gun shut and cocked it back against his shoulder. 'Don't trust me?'

'No.'

They stared at each other for a second, years of history pulled taut between them. Finally, Bass shrugged and flipped the shotgun, offering it stock-first over his forearm. Miles took it and glanced in the trunk at an empty cardboard box lying on its side.

'Shells?'

Bass laughed, a dry sound, and pulled a handful out of his pocket. 'Five,' he said, shaking his head. 'If we were in Philly-'

'You'd be getting a taste of the hospitality in your own prison,' Miles said, taking the cartridges. 'We're not fighting a war, just trying to get out of here.'

Bass leant back the car and crossed his arms. His forearms were pink and peeling from the sun. Last time Miles had seen him looking this much like a killer had been in Iraq – the first tour, when they'd been cocky and stupid. 

'And where are we going to go?' Bass asked.

Miles gave him an exasperated look. 'Back to the Republic,' he said. 'Get Charlie back to Rachel and Danny-' 

'Like you just pointed out, that wouldn't be healthy for me,' Bass pointed out. 'And how far are you going to get across the Plains Nation with no-one to watch your back.'

'I have Charlie,' Miles said. He turned and walked away, settling the shotgun into the crook of his arm. Empty store-fronts lined the road, everything valuable and portable cleared out with the residents. Sand scraped and shifted under his feet as he walked.

Bass snorted. 'Self-righteousness isn't a martial art, Miles,' he said, falling into step beside him. 'And Charlie's a very pretty girl – usually.'

'Keep your eyes to yourself,' Miles snapped. 

'How many people are you going to have to tell that too?' Bass asked. 'How many are going to listen?'

Miles stopped and turned to face Bass. He might not like it sometimes, but Bass was his oldest friend. No-one in the world knew them as well as they knew each other. So he could tell when Bass was angling for something, knew the coaxing even if he wasn't quite sure what. 

'What's your point?'

Bass flicked his finger against the barrel of the shotgun. 'Just that it's going to be like a war, and you're going to need more than five shells and a girl with spunk.'

He walked away.

They found Charlie in an old hardware, wearing new jeans and a skinny white vest. She'd found a compound bow in a display case and was testing the draw, knuckles touching her chin as she squinted down the sights.

'Arrows?' Miles asked.

Charlie's shoulder flexed and rolled as she relaxed the pull, letting the bow swing forward in her hand. 'Some,' she said, and held up her shiny arm. 'I found some aftersun too.'

Bass snorted and stripped off his tattered shirt, tossing it into the corner. His skin looked very pale against his sunburnt arms and face, ridges of old scars flexing as he grabbed a black t-shirt and shook it out. Charlie stared at him for a second, hard to tell if she was blushing at the moment, and then away. She went over to the counter, beckoning to Miles to follow.

'I found a map,' she said, brushing dust off the glass with a swipe of her hand. Years ago the map had been bright and simplified, giving tourists a general idea of being in the right area. It was faded now, colours gone pastels, but the yellow 'You are Here!' star could still be picked out, just next to Death Valley's grinning skull. Charlie put her finger on it and then trailed it across the Wasteland, the Plains and stopped over Chicago. 'It's a long way, Miles.'

He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. 'We can do. You walked 1000 miles to get Danny, remember?' 

She leant into him, a slight, warm weight. His arm settled naturally around her, hooking around the sharp dip of her waist so his hand dangled over her hip. It felt good in a way he never let himself dwell on. He rested his chin on her head. 

'We had Nora and Aaron. Maggie. You knew where we had to go,' she said. 'Now? Monroe? He-'

'Isn't coming,' Miles said. A hollow tugged at the back of his ribs, as if he'd expected Bass to follow him again. He took a deep breath. 'Can't blame him, Charlie. He goes back and they'll kill him. Maybe it's what he deserves-'

'No,' Charlie sighed. 'I mean, he does, but it wouldn't feel right. Not now. So, it's just us?'

Miles bumped kiss against her temple. 'Hey, they'll have heard stories about me in the Plains Nation too.'

She huffed under his arm. 'You're going to have to tell me those stories eventually, you know.'

'Yeah, no I don't,' Miles said. He straightened up and gave Charlie a gentle shove. 'Come on, grab what we need and we'll get back to the motel. A night's sleep on an actual bed, we can get going tomorrow.'

****

Charlie was the one who got the bed, face down on the mattress and snoring gently. Every fifteen minutes or so she'd snort herself half-awake, then doze back over once her brain decided there was nothing worth waking all the way up for. When they'd started travelling together he'd thought she didn't trust him.

'She used to check on Danny,' Maggie had told him, knees nudging as she took a swig of whisky and offered him the bottle. 'Every night, to make sure he was breathing ok. She doesn't even know she's doing it.'

Twisting the cap off the tequila Miles poured himself a shot in a cardboard coffee cup. Cutting down wasn't cutting out. He tilted the bottle towards Bass, who was sprawled out on the floor with his back against the bed, and raised his eyebrows. After a second Bass nodded. Miles poured him a shot and leaned over to hand it to Bass.

They drank two shots in silence – Bass hissing once at the rough bite of the cheap booze. He'd gotten used to better as President, but he'd adapt. Miles had. The rucksack Bass had grabbed leant against the wall, already packed and ready to go.

'What are you going to do?' Miles asked eventually, dropping his voice to a quiet murmur. 'When we leave?'

Bass licked tequila from the wet rim of his cup and shrugged, leaning his head back to rest against the mattress. He half-closed his eyes, wet slivers peeping colourless through his lashes, and thought about it. 'Head to a neighbour town, I suppose,' he said. 'Settle down. Maybe get married, a nice, fat farmgirl to keep me warm at nights.'

In the dark, with Bass in looted jeans and t-shirt, it felt like old times. Before everything went wrong, back when he was walking to Chicago with his best friend and still thought things would get back to some sort of normal. It made it easier.

'Lots of farmgirls in the Plains,' he said. 

Bass held out his cup for a refill. 'It doesn't get as cold,' he said.

'Come with us,' Miles said, pouring. 'Please?'

The mattress shifted as Bass sat back and Charlie squirmed, making sleepy fretful noises. Without looking round, Bass reached up and rubbed her foot. The contact soothed her back down under sleep, settling bonelessly into the bed.

'I thought you didn't trust me?' Bass said, hand lingering deliberately.

Miles tilted his cup and stared into the thin film of tequila coating the bottom. 'I do and I don't,' he admitted. 'I don't trust you to do the right thing, but I'd trust you to have my back. If something happened to me, I'd trust you to take care of Charlie.'

'Touching,' Bass said, voice taking on the sardonic bite of General Monroe. 'But maybe I don't trust you. How many times have you tried to kill me now?'

Miles tossed back the dregs of tequila and screwed the lid back on the bottle. 'If I'd been trying to kill you, you'd be dead,' he said. 'You know that.'

Silence was his only answer. He slouched down in the chair and stretched his legs out in front of him, trying to find a comfortable position. There wasn't one. It wouldn't stop him getting a few hours sleep – he'd napped in trees and wedged into crevices – but waking up wouldn't be fun. 

He was just dozing off when Bass murmured, 'I'll think about it.'

The next morning Bass was still there. He didn't say he was going to stay, but he rode out of town with them. Miles supposed that counted as maybe at least. The sun was crawling up into the sky, making them all squint. As they passed the already looted general store Bass reined in his horse. Not that the worn nags needed much urging to stop moving.

'Hold on,' he said, dropping out of the saddle and disappearing inside. Five minutes later he came back out with three stetsons, ignoring Miles heartfelt 'fuck right off'. He passed a white one up to Charlie and settled a black one over his own sweat curled hair.

Miles got a grey one. He turned it in his hands, rubbing his thumb over the brim. It was sort of appropriate, he supposed, and better than letting their heads bake – even if it did make him feel like a clueless tourist. 

'Great,' he muttered, slicking his hair back and putting his hat over it. 'First it was pirates, now we're cowboys. We ever get to be the good guys, Bass?'


End file.
